


build a fire in your eyes

by lacking



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Character Study, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Open Relationships, Pining, Threesome - M/M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-11-11
Updated: 2015-10-28
Packaged: 2018-02-25 00:58:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 8,730
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2602682
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lacking/pseuds/lacking
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>Sometimes, he thinks of the boy Thorin was and then of the dwarf he’s become and can’t reconcile one with the other.</em>
</p>
<p>In which Dwalin sees something reignite in Thorin thanks to the peculiar, fussy Mister Baggins, and refuses to leave well enough alone. </p>
<p>(An ongoing series of interconnected short stories.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. spark

He splits off from the caravan once they reach Bree, bidding goodbye to the one man amongst the lot he’s taken something of a liking to and trading a cut of his pay for a pouch of fresh pipeweed and a hale, spotted pony. 

“This is still too much,” Dwalin says after the exchange, weighing a leather purse in the palm of his hand, listening to the metallic shuffle of the coppers resting within.

“You haven’t counted it.”

“And yet.”

The man laughs, crossing his arms, his white teeth flashing as he tips up his chin. He’s bearded, this one, with rust coloured scruff lining his jaw and cheeks. Dwain has thought of bedding him on occasion, entertaining idle fantasies behind closed lids in the dead of night, lying alone in his tent with the cold, hard ground pressing up against his spine through the thin padding of his bedroll. The man cuts a striking figure, with his tanned forearms and weathered face, but in the ten months Dwalin has known him he’s never once made a proposition. 

It’s not his hands that Dwalin truly desires, not his eyes or smile or lurking, sharp wit. 

So Dwalin clasps the man’s arm and leaves without looking back, and it’s not regret that accompanies him, that awakens deep in his chest and unfurls beneath the cage of his ribs, but anticipation. 

He’d been hired as a sell-sword, traveling alongside the convoy from point to point for nearly a year, standing guard whenever they stopped to set up their makeshift markets. Four times Dwalin has fought off small packs of bandits, and there’s been an incident or two when he’s taken care of some lowly passerby with sticky fingers. He wrote to his brother and Thorin of these things whenever he was given access to a raven, and it was through those letters that Dwalin learned of a quest beginning to take shape, one that made Balin anxious in the face of Thorin’s bullheaded resolve.

_Will you join me?_ Thorin wrote, the strokes of his quill steady and solid but followed by a line of uncertain, meandering dots, that made Dwalin smile to see.

_Obviously,_ had been Dwalin’s short reply.

It takes him less than three days to reach Hobbiton, his pony clopping along flagstone roads that eventually taper off into flat, dirt trails that have been worn down into the earth. A few locals cross his path, small folk that cast worried glances in his direction and look down at their feet when Dwalin glares back. One brave lass pauses after catching sight of him, shifting the babe at her breast so she can wave to Dwalin as he passes, honey-coloured curls bracketing her round face.

The evening cools as he trods on, the air turning damp with the promise of rain to come. Dwalin shivers as the sweat beneath his collar begins to dry, leaving only cool skin and gooseflesh behind. He pulls his cloak in tighter, scrutinizing each cozy little smial he passes with a growing impatience, telling himself it’s sure be the next one, the next.

It’s the tree that catches Dwalin’s eye, a weathered oak planted atop a small hill, its branches stretching out to hang over a green door with the Wizard’s mark shimmering from where it’s been scratched into the paint. Dwalin circles around back to tether off his pony before pushing through the front grate, acorns crunching beneath his boots as walks up the short pathway.

He knocks, three solid thumps with his fist, the sharp steel strapped to his knuckles clacking against the wood, and turns away to look back over the land as he waits to be answered.

Quaint is a word better suited to his brother’s vocabulary than his own, yet it springs to Dwalin’s mind all the same as he scans the rolling landscape. He takes in the lush colour of the grass, the shimmering gleam of the moonlight as it glances across the surface of the lake in the distance. Somewhere close a cricket chirps, and further down the hill there are fireflies blinking in and out of sight. A group of small hobbit children are chasing after them, squealing with delight whenever they manage to catch one, cracking open the soft cage of their hands to peer down at their glowing prize.

When Dwalin was a young stripling he used to slip outside the mountain at night with Thorin, sometimes carrying a flask of stolen mead beneath his shirt or an old pipe tucked away into his pocket. They would travel downwards until they reached a point where there was enough soil for tress to grow and sit together in the dirt, drinking or smoking or talking. Sometimes, they would spot fireflies moving against the horizon, and one summer night Thorin told Dwalin of a silly little story he learned from his grandmother about stars drifting too close to the earth and becoming stuck there. He jabbed his fist into Dwalin’s side when he laughed, and Dwalin hooked his arm around Thorin’s neck, and soon enough they were both bruised and breathing hard, lying together quietly atop a bed of dead leaves and pine needles, the scent of which lingered on Thorin’s clothes for days to come.

The door swings open, and the small figure behind it blinks owlishly when Dwalin turns to him. Dwalin tips forward into a shallow bow, introducing himself, and is courteous enough to allow the hobbit to tie his robe shut before pushing by him into the house.

“I—I’m sorry, but do I know you?” The hobbit blusters behind him.

Dwalin looks at him again, really looks, taking in the soft curve of his belly, his round clean nails, his pink hands unmarked by callouses, and already knows that Thorin is not going to be impressed, not by this gentle little creature that’s already bundled up and ready for bed.

“No,” he says.

 

\--

 

Thorin is late to arrive. His cheeks are ruddy from the crisp night air and the warm light of the candles catch against the gleaming strands of silver in his hair. He passes his off his heavy traveling cloak and smiles at his nephews, his eyes scanning over each dwarf that’s managed to cram themselves into the entryway. They linger on Dwalin longer than the rest, holding his gaze in a silent greeting before turning on their host.

Thorin stares, his eyes widening as his lips part. He steps forward, crowding in, and Bilbo doesn’t move away.

“So,” he says at last. “This is the hobbit.”

Bilbo bristles, turning to follow Thorin as he circles around him, his shoulders rolling forward and hunching, annoyance tugging at his lips in a waspy smile.

“Axe or sword?” Thorin asks. There’s a strange tone underlining his voice that Dwalin can’t pin down, all at once sounding eager and wary and warm. 

“I have some skill in conkers, if you must know,” Bilbo says, ducking his chin but keeping his eyes up.

Thorin smirks, crossing his arms, and Dwalin knows that look, knows it better on the face of a young, cocky prince than a wandering king, but knows it all the same. Thorin grinned at Dwalin like that the first time they faced off against each other on the yard, an invitation curving alongside his smug smile. _Come now, impress me. Show me what you can do._

And later, when Gandalf fails to convince the hobbit to join them, when Bilbo pushes up from his armchair and pads off to bed, Thorin turns away from his conversation with Balin to watch him go, and whatever spark Dwalin had glimpsed within him before gutters back out. 

“You don’t have to do this,” Balin says. “You have a choice.”

“There is no choice,” Thorin tells him. “Not for me.”

Balin pats Thorin’s arm and wanders away, moving off towards where Dwalin stands at the doorway to the sitting room. Dwalin cants his head in open inquiry when Thorin turns to meet his eyes, his hip set against the sturdy frame.

“It’s nothing,” Thorin tells him after the songs have faded and the hearth has begun to cool, his voice soft and nearly drowned out by the snores of their sleeping companions.

Dwalin steals the pipe from Thorin’s mouth, takes the damp stem between his teeth, and doesn’t believe him.


	2. grin

Thorin is laughing the first time they kiss.

Dwalin has him pinned belly-down in the yard with his knee digging into the small of his back. Their blunted practice swords and worn shields have been long cast aside, and Dwalin’s tunic sits in a rumpled heap next to them. He discarded halfway through their scuffle, distracted by the way it stuck to the damp nape of his neck, his elbows and spine. 

“Honestly?” Thorin had said when Dwalin called for a moment’s pause, dropping his arms and rolling his eyes as Dwalin pulled his shirt up and over his head.

“What, afraid you might like what you see?” 

Thorin’s breathing hard beneath him, turning his face away from the dirt, grit and small stones scraping along his cheek. His hair is damp with sweat and there’s soil gathering beneath his nails as he curls his fingers, his arms shaking as he pushes back against Dwalin’s hold. He blinks as a shadow passes over his face, and somewhere high above a gull cries out at it drifts beneath the sun.

“Do you yield?” Dwalin asks. He doesn’t try to hide the sharp glint of his teeth, the note of pride in his voice. He’s never kept a tally but suspects it’s Thorin who leaves these matches victorious more often than not. Dwalin is stronger and broader and taller but Thorin is quick on his feet and hates to lose. He never backs down when he should, pushing and pushing until his opponent calls off no matter how bruised or exhausted he is. He never quite preens afterwards but it’s always clear that he’s pleased with himself, twirling his wooden sword about and standing with his hip cocked, his fist planted firmly on the jut of his waist.

Dwalin thinks he’s entitled to a little gloating in return. 

“Well?”

Thorin sneers. He wriggles against the ground, his teeth clenching in a harsh smile as he tries to buck Dwalin off. Dwalin sways with his movements, bearing down onto his back and squeezing at Thorin’s wrists to show just how well he has him caught. 

“Fine,” Thorin says at last, slumping into his defeat, his face warming from either exertion or embarrassment. “Fine. Get off of me.”

Dwalin does, giving Thorin a hearty smack between his shoulder blades before pushing to his feet. Thorin grumbles and doesn’t stand, rolling over and propping himself up onto is elbow, shaking the hair from his face and blowing at the strands still sticking to his dry lips.

“You did almost have me for a moment there,” Dwalin says. 

“Oh, piss off.” Thorin wipes the dirt from his face, turns his head and spits. “You could at least help me up.” 

“You’re such a sore loser,” Dwalin says, laughing when Thorin scowls and wrinkles his nose at him. He extends his hand, reaching down to grasp Thorin’s forearm, and something wet spatters against the back of his neck, too warm and heavy to be mistaken for rain.

Dwalin freezes, the tips of his ears burning red hot.

“What—?” Thorin tilts his head to the side, squinting up at him, his eyes hooded against the sun’s glare. “Did a bird just…?”

Dwalin says nothing, his tongue sitting like a lump in his mouth. He lets go of Thorin’s arm, reaching around to swipe his fingers over the mess on his neck before it starts dribbling down his back.

And Thorin —grumpy, dirty, sweaty Thorin— bows forward and bursts out laughing.

“Oi, shut it!” Dwaln snaps, smearing the shit on his hand over the leg of his trousers, patting himself down for a rag he knows he won’t find. “It’s not funny!” 

“Yes it is! Your _face_!” 

Thorin’s completely given up on standing, rolling over onto his side and pulling his knees to his chest, laughing so hard his entire body is shaking with it, his dark lashes growing wet and clumping together over his pale cheeks. “Oh, it serves you right, you cocky bastard!”

Dwalin wipes at his neck again. His anger is gone, draining away in a sudden rush, replaced by a fond kind of bemusement as he watches Thorin twist against the ground.

“You’re not acting very princely,” He says slowly, nudging at Thorin’s knee with the toe of his boot. He doesn’t really expect a response, not when Thorin can hardly seem to breathe. 

Dwalin’s been friends with Thorin for perhaps two years now and has known him longer still. He knows that Thorin laughs quietly, that he bites back his smiles and tends to duck his head and hide behind his hair when he finds something truly funny. Dwalin’s not sure what to make of this boy in front of him, unabashed and happy with tears in his eyes.

Dwalin reaches for him.

“No, no, no, get away from me!” Thorin says, scrambling backwards, pushing at Dwalin’s chest. He’s still hiccupping with laughter and it makes his movements sluggish and weak. Dwalin catches him easily, and he’s kind enough not wipe his hands clean on Thorin’s bare arms, curling his fingers into his tunic instead, and Thorin lifts his face just as Dwalin leans down to try and pin him again.

It might just be an accident, the rough scrape of Thorin’s beard against his own, the dry brush of chapped lips over his mouth. But then Thorin is gripping at his shoulders, fingers slipping over damp skin as he tries to drag Dwalin closer. 

“Will you—?” He starts, and they’re kissing before he finishes.

Dwalin’s done this before, sneaking off into dark corners or out onto abandoned scaffoldings with another lad for a quick peck and clumsy grope that’s never left him feeling as enflamed as he does right now, with the sun warm on his back and Thorin’s mouth pulled into the shape of a smile against his, light and wispy little chuckles still escaping from the corners of his lips.

They break away with a gasp and a wet sound. Dwalin licks his lips, just once, imagining he can sill taste Thorin there, and Thorin leans back onto his hands, grinning bright and wide.

And it’s only then that Dwalin realizes he’s in trouble.


	3. denial

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Brief description of unwanted sexual advances.

“Wait!”

Thorin digs his heels into the sides of his pony, urging it to reel around just in time for him to see Bilbo Baggins breach the borders of the forest in a flat sprint, messy brown curls bouncing about both atop his head and over his large, bare feet. 

Gandalf lets out a pleased puff of air, his eyes crinkling beneath the wide brim of his pointed hat. He casts a sidelong glance towards Thorin, gauging his reaction, and Thorin squares his jaw, snorts softly beneath his breath and stares right back. He refuses to be impressed by the hobbit’s impulsive change of heart, crushing down his mounting surprise and paying no mind to the strange, fluttering feeling that comes nestled alongside it.

“I signed it,” Bilbo says with a bright grin. The contract is clenched tightly in his hand, snapping out behind him in the wind like a banner. He passes it off to Balin who makes a small show of appraising the hobbit while fiddling for his eyeglass, taking a long moment to inspect the new signature at the bottom of the page before welcoming Bilbo into the Company with a wink.

Not five minutes later Bilbo is wriggling uncomfortably on his saddle, sneezing into the wind and complaining about his forgotten handkerchief. Thorin looks over his shoulder, watching as Bofur rips worn patch from his coat and flings it towards Bilbo with a quick snap of his wrist. 

Bilbo holds the rag up in front of his face with two fingers, wrinkling his pert little nose, and Thorin is certain that he will last no more than a week on the road before turning back.

 

\--

 

It’s nearly mid-morning when Thorin pulls ahead of the Company, ducking beneath a low hanging branch from a maple tree only to straighten too soon and jostle the leaves anyways. A sheet of disturbed dew rains down over him, pattering against the back of Thorin’s neck and making his pony’s ears swivel back and forth. 

Close behind him comes the sound of low, rolling laughter, and Thorin licks the water from his lips and waits for Dwalin’s pony to catch up with his own, extending his arm and flicking the droplets on his fingers in the direction of his friend’s face once he’s well within reach.

Dwalin twitches, shifting his reigns to one hand so he can mime smacking the rump of Thorin’s pony with the other.

“You would not dare,” Thorin says. 

“ _Ha._ I think we both know that’s not true in the least.”

Thorin bites his tongue and tucks his chin against his chest, his shoulders hitching as he swallows down a belly-deep guffaw. Dwalin, in contrast, smirks widely at his own joke. 

They travel together in a companionable silence that’s broken by the rustling wind or the occasional, rowdy shout coming up from the Company. Thorin looks back every now and again, making sure that no one has fallen behind and that his nephews are still behaving themselves. Despite his intent he finds his gaze drawn consistently towards Bilbo. The hobbit is absorbed in his conversation with Gandalf, chattering away with his chin tipped up, squinting through the patches of dappled sunlight that sift down through the trees. He hardly even seems to notice when he waves his arm in some nonsense gesture and comes dangerously close to sliding off his saddle.

The third time Thorin cranes his neck around Dwalin makes a point of snorting at him. Loudly.

“The hobbit’s caught your eye,” he says.

Thorin’s reply is almost immediate, spoken with a careful air of disinterest: “I don’t know what you mean.”

“You keep looking at him.”

“He’s about to fall off that pony.”

Dwalin frowns and looks over his shoulder. A moment later Bilbo’s high-pitched squawk rings through the air, and Thorin is sure to have a self-indulgent little smirk in place by the time Dwalin turns back to him.

He expects Dwalin to scoff, to roll his eyes or maybe even make good on his threat to send Thorin’s pony bolting off into the wilderness. But Dwalin only cocks his head to the side and narrows his eyes, peering at Thorin like he’s just done something peculiar.

Thorin drops his smile, oddly stung by the reaction. “What?”

“Nothing,” Dwalin says. “You’re really not interested, then?”

“In the hobbit?”

“Yes.”

“No.”

“Not at all?”

“ _No._ ”

“So you wouldn’t mind if I had a go at him?”

Thorin pauses.

Dwalin hums low in his throat, nodding slowly as though he’s just come to some wise understanding.

“Shut up,” Thorin says. “I just hadn’t thought he’d be your type.”

“Why’s that?”

“He’s too—” Thorin cuts himself off, scowling, realizing too late the trap Dwalin has set for him.

“Too…?”

“Soft,” Thorin settles on. “You’ve always preferred—”

He waves a hand though the air as if that alone will somehow convey his meaning. Thorin has only ever known Dwalin to pursue burly men or dwarves, enticed by the feel of knotted muscle beneath his hands or the rough drag of beard against his own. He’s never shared Thorin’s own extended interest in comely lasses or fair-boned men. 

“You think he’s too pretty for my tastes,” Dwalin says. 

Thorin remains silent. He should deny it, he knows, but there is perhaps some shallow allure to the hobbit. His dark round eyes were what first caught Thorin’s attention, but it would be a lie to say there’s no further appeal at all in Bilbo’s wheat-coloured curls or bare jaw. 

“I don’t mind pretty,” Dwalin goes on to say. “Remember that shapely little barmaid? I liked her just fine.”

Thorin starts, his fingers clenching against the reigns in an uncontrollable spasm he has no hopes of hiding. “That’s only because—”

“Hm?”

Because she had been perfectly content with watching as Thorin and Dwalin tussled at the end of her bed. Because when Thorin bowed low and pushed open her thighs Dwalin had been a heavy weight bent over his back, rutting against him and scraping his teeth down the rope of Thorin’s spine.

“You didn’t even touch her,” Thorin says. His voice catches in his throat, and he swallows only to find his mouth has gone dry.

“Not true. We kissed once. Wasn’t too bad.”

Thorin doesn’t recall that happening, but then, perhaps he had not been in a position to see it. It’s an enticing memory all the same, one that Thorin revisits more often than he cares to admit. It hadn’t been the last time he and Dwalin laid together, but near it, and likely the very thing that caused their arrangement to come to an abrupt end.

It had been Thorin’s own fault. He had been stupid and overeager —flirting with the waitress right at the front of the bar, leaving with her and Dwalin both and daring to touch her hair while they were still standing out on the street for any leering passerby to see. 

That was when the rumours started, whispers that only grew in volume the longer Thorin tried to ignore them.

_Did you see?_

_Did you hear?_

_They say our would-be King will take anyone into his chambers._

The breaking point had been when a dwarf openly propositioned him at the end of a hunting trip, sliding up next to Thorin as he checked over his axe and firmly cupping his knee. His breath was hot against Thorin’s skin, already stinking sweetly of the celebratory wine. 

Others had been present when it happened, older dwarves who had pledged their allegiance to Thorin’s grandfather, who stood in vain against Smaug’s attack and marched proudly into the battle of Anzanulbizar. Thorin could feel their eyes boring into the back of his neck as the brash stripling mouthed a dirty promise against his ear, and shame washed over him in a hot, suffocating wave. How he must have looked to their eyes: pitiful and needy, a boy taking refuge in his baser urges to stave off the weight of his own rule.

The dwarf was made an example of, and had been lucky to walk away with only a sprained wrist and bloodied nose.

Thorin put a stop to his indulgent trysts not long after. It was strange, to find himself suddenly holding Dwalin at arm’s length —Dwalin, who had been at his side since they were children, who trained with him and fought next to him, who knew that the backs of Thorin’s knees were ticklish and that he once ate a dozen honeyed-pies on a dare only to be wretchedly sick afterwards.

But that too was Thorin’s fault. He had become too familiar with Dwalin, didn’t know anymore more how to be his friend without also wanting to kiss him. It took them years to find a new balance with each other, and through it all Dwalin never complained, never argued against Thorin’s decision or tried to change his mind once news of the scandal died down. 

“I wish you luck in your endeavor,” Thorin says brusquely, shaking free of his reminiscing and turning is attention back to the road ahead. He has far more pressing matters to focus on than regrets of the past. What concern of it is his besides, if Dwalin wants to play at perusing the hobbit?

Dwalin blinks, and it seems for a moment that he’s completely forgotten what they’d just been discussing.

“Hmph. Well, tell me if you change your mind,” he says, heaving his heavy shoulders upwards into a sloping shrug. 

“I won’t,” Thorin insists, bristling when Dwalin only lifts a skeptical eyebrow in response.


	4. cloak

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just ignoring the movie timeline here a little bit. Don't mind me!

It’s fair to say that when Bilbo Baggins ran out his door wearing his second-best walking jacket with no spare handkerchief to speak of, he had, perhaps, not taken the time to fully consider the consequences of his actions.

He’d known, of course, that he was embarking on something more than a leisurely afternoon ride through the woods. The very contract he carried spared no detail in describing the perils he should expect to face, namely one that took the form of a fire-breathing dragon.

But no mention had been made of lumbering, ravenous mountain trolls. Bilbo is quite certain of that.

Bruises line his arms and legs in dark, purpling welts, marking where clammy fingers closed over his limbs and pulled. And though Bilbo knows he shook like a leaf when the creatures lifted him up, that his vision blurred at the edges and his throat closed shut, he doesn’t remember feeling afraid. He remembers watching Kili lunge forward only to be held back, remembers the sound of blood pounding in his ears and the dawning realization that Thorin would not stand down, that he would hold to what he said to Gandalf and leave Bilbo to his fate, allow these monsters to rip him in two— 

But Thorin didn’t. He went back on his word and threw his weapon to the ground, his eyes shadowed in the red, flickering glow of the fire.

Bilbo approached him after they were rescued, not knowing if he meant to thank Thorin or awkwardly apologize, but Thorin had only glowered and turned away, tossing the sack he’d been placed in over the smoldering embers.

“Make yourself useful,” he said, nodding to where the others were still struggling to untie Bofur and Dori from the dismounted skewer before stomping off to speak with Gandalf. Bilbo watched him go, struck silent with dead grass pickling at bottoms of his feet, cheeks flushing from a restless mixture of anger and shame. 

Thorin doesn’t care for him. That much has been clear from the moment the dwarf stepped into Bag End and smirked down at Bilbo like he was the unexpected punch line to a long-winded joke. Bilbo reasons he should then feel relieved to know Thorin isn’t willing to throw him to the wolves even so, but he doesn’t.

He feels tired and homesick, useless and unwanted. 

Bilbo settles down onto his knees at the edge of the river, plunging his hands into the water and scrubbing them together until they’re glowing pink and aching with cold. Thorin had been eager to set out back onto the road after they finished investigating the trolls’ hoard, but after a brief word with Balin had relinquished a single hour for Bombur to scrape together quick breakfast, giving Bilbo the opportunity to slink away towards the small stream near the edge of camp. 

He curses his own rotten luck as he drags his slick palms over his cheeks and throat, nearly retching when crusted troll snot rubs off beneath his fingers. Summer is beginning to wane and the morning air is damp and cool, and Bilbo shivers as he combs his wet fingers through his matted hair, gooseflesh rising along the back of his neck and over his arms as he shrugs out of his jacket and waistcoat, wrinkling his nose at the stench as he holds them up before his face for inspection. They’ve both gone stiff with filth, the once fine material now stained beyond hope of repair. A stitch has come loose in his vest, unraveling the front pocket, and a burnished button is already missing from the bottom of his jacket.

“I wouldn’t.”

Bilbo starts, pausing with his arms hanging out over the water, looking over his shoulder to find Dwalin emerging from the bush, stretching his thick neck from side to side. 

“Wouldn’t what?” Bilbo asks. 

“Drench the only clothes you have before we set off again.”

“But—look at them!” Bilbo waves the garments in the air. “I can’t go on wearing them like this!”

“You’ll be cold all day.”

“Shivering is better than smelling.”

Dwalin snorts, loud and bull-like. 

“It’s not,” he says flatly. 

Bilbo opens his mouth to protest, and then promptly snaps it shut after considering that Dwalin would likely know better on this matter, having lived on the road before. 

“The sun’s out,” Bilbo mumbles, rubbing his thumb along the frayed collar of his jacket. “The day may still warm up.”

Bilbo jumps when Dwalin scoffs again, suddenly close as he hunkers down next to him, knees pressing carelessly into the mud. He dips his large hand into the river, bringing gulps of water up to his mouth. It catches against his beard and moustache in beads, gleaming red and yellow in the light of the rising sun.

If Bilbo’s to be completely honest with himself, he must admit there’s something eye-catching about Dwalin. Perhaps it’s his bare, dark forearms or the ink on his knuckles, but Bilbo finds himself more curious about the dwarf than intimidated. He may not be as openly friendly as Bofur or as cheerful as Kili, but there’s a steadiness to his presence that Bilbo has come to appreciate. He would liken Dwalin to a study wall of stone, weather-worn but still capable of standing through the worst of storms, and very handy to hide behind besides. 

Dwalin lifts an eyebrow, rubbing his wrist over his mouth as his eyes flick up and down over Bilbo’s small frame, as if mimicking the hobbit’s own blatant scrutiny. Bilbo quickly looks away, the tips of his ears growing rapidly warm. 

“Here,” Dwalin says, patting himself down and producing a leather pouch that’s been tied shut with a drawstring. “If you’re going to do what you like anyways.”

Dwalin flicks his fingers and Bilbo catches the small package with one hand, fumbling a little. Inside he finds a small, grey wedge of soap that smells strongly of pine when Bilbo brings it up to his nose.

“I couldn’t,” Bilbo says, clinging to propriety no matter how desperately he wants to put the soap to use. Surely this is all Dwalin has for himself.

But Dwalin has already fallen back, settling atop an old log with his unlit pipe between his teeth, chewing on the end. 

“Just don’t use it all,” Dwalin says.

So Bilbo bites his tongue and dunks his waistcoat down into river, giving it a thorough scrubbing and wringing it out twice before moving on to his jacket. Another button comes loose in the midst of the washing, and Bilbo lets out a little forlorn sigh as he tucks it away into his trouser pocket, thinking he may yet steal a chance to sew it back on later.

“Thank you,” Bilbo says, tucking the soap safely into its bag and pushing himself up to his feet. His clothes are a damp weight in his arms, and Bilbo’s not entirely sure what to do with them. He doubts there’s much point in hanging them over a low branch to dry when he can see Thorin’s restless silhouette pacing through the trees.

“Fortunate you have a talent for chattering on, hm?” Dwalin says, accepting the pouch and tucking it away again. It takes Bilbo a moment to realize Dwalin’s referring to the incident with the trolls, and then a moment more to consider if Dwalin’s generosity was meant to show his approval. 

“Yes, well…” Bilbo shrugs, unsure if he should accept the words as a compliment or allow them to slide by as statement. “Let it not be said that us gentle folk have no talents of our own.”

There must be something in his tone, for Dwalin tilts his head and hikes up one bushy eyebrow, considering Bilbo with dark eyes. 

“Having second thoughts?”

“No,” Bilbo lies, his hackles rising. “No, just wishing I left home more prepared. A spare coat wouldn’t have been amiss, it seems.”

Dwalin continues to stare. Bilbo presses his lips together in an unimpressed, flat line.

“Yes?”

“What changed your mind?”

“Ah?”

“About coming along.”

Bilbo’s jacket is dripping onto his toes. He curls them into the dirt and thinks of low, humming voices and the heady scent of smoke, of lying in bed on top of his mother’s favourite quilt and dreaming of snowy peaks and flashing steel, the sound of hammering anvils echoing in the dark. 

“Why?” Bilbo asks. “What does it matter?”

“Just a question,” Dwalin says, still speaking around his empty pipe.

“I always—when I was a child, I used to spend hours wandering through the woods on the edges of the Shire looking for—” he cuts himself off, swallowing down the word _elves_ “—er, that is, wishing that something would happen and I could be whisked away on some grand adventure just like my mother had been. And that morning when I woke up to find you all had left I just… I kept thinking of what she would have said about me staying behind. If she would have been disappointed by it.” 

Bilbo trails off, twisting his clothes between his hands as Dwalin blinks at him owlishly. 

“Hmm,” Dwalin says.

Bilbo clicks his tongue. “Not quite so noble as wanting to reclaim a homeland, I’ll admit, but—”

And then Dwalin surprises him. He laughs, loud enough for it to be considered rude, his shoulders slouching as he shakes his head.

Bilbo frowns. “What was that?”

“What was what?”

“What you just did.”

“Laugh?”

“ _Yes,_ but why?”

“I’m not here for the mountain,” Dwalin says. His knees crack when he stands, his large, metal-clad hands pressed flat to his thighs. 

“But then—?”

“Mr. Dwalin!” Kili calls. “And Mr. Boggins! The food’s ready!”

“After you, Master Hobbit.” Dwalin says, motioning for Bilbo to step ahead in a mocking show of manners. Something in his voice gives Bilbo reason to believe that Dwalin thinks he’s being funny.

Sitting down near the fire pit on a low, flat stone, Bilbo sips at the watery remains of the previous night’s stew. His clothes are laid out in a spot of sun beside him and his hair sticks to his ears and cheeks in damp whorls. Shivers still wrack through his body at odd intervals, and Bilbo clenches his jaw between quick bites, trying to still the mad chattering of his teeth.

Dwalin approaches him once more just before they set off, pushing a rolled up ball of dark green cloth into Bilbo’s arms after he finishes draping his jacket and waistcoat over the back of his saddle. 

“Here.”

Curiously, Bilbo shakes the bundle out. For a moment he thinks he’s been gifted a blanket until he notices the hood and leather ties, the long arms with rolled cuffs.

“Might be a bit large,” Bilbo finds himself saying.

Dwalin pauses, having already begun to turn away. He extends his hand, fingers flexing, as if daring Bilbo to return it. From there the only proper response is for Bilbo to lift his eyebrows and pull the cloak on over his head, shrugging into the wide shoulders and plucking neatly at the front, acting as though he’s just slipped into a fine dinner jacket.

“That’s what I thought,” Dwalin says.

Bilbo smiles, feeling strangely accomplished as he slips his foot into the stirrup and hoists himself up onto the back of his pony. The cloak is so long that he has to lift up the ends and pile them over his lap or else let it flutter against the animal’s legs. He shuffles in his saddle and catches sight of Thorin watching him from the front of the convoy, fingers clenched tight around the reigns of his own mount.

But then he’s not the one Bilbo is looking at. Dwalin steps up next to Thorin, elbowing him in the side and saying something too quiet for Bilbo to hear. Thorin’s mouth lifts behind his beard as he moves towards his pony, throwing out some stray comment over his shoulder. Whatever he says causes Dwalin to smirk, and he’s made startlingly handsome by the open boyishness of his smile, the fine lines fanning out at the corners of his eyes, so long that they extend down towards his warming cheeks. 

_Not here for the mountain,_ Bilbo thinks, watching as Thorin turns away, as Dwalin casts one last, lingering look at the broad expanse of his King’s back. 

His grin, Bilbo notices, is very slow to fade.


	5. burden

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: This chapter contains descriptions of grief, self-harm, and implications of PTSD.

The smell lingers. A week after the burning and Dwalin still catches whiffs of it caught in his clothes or hair, rising off the backs of the survivors in a thick plume as they march. There are moments when Dwalin thinks the scent is potent enough for him to taste, when his stomach clenches and rumbles in response to the cooked flavor and it’s all he can do to not bend over and spill a mouthful of sick over his boots.

Two days more, he tells himself. Two days and they’ll converge with the rest of their kin, a meager crop of children and dwarves too old or sick to fight, the caretakers left behind to mind them. A raven has been sent on ahead bearing news of their lost, but an answering message has yet to be returned. Secretly, Dwalin thinks the creature never bothered in making the trip, taking to the sky and abandoning them to their plight. Few birds are left to them now, and those that remain have grown restless, snapping their beaks and shrieking violently at their masters whenever they’re asked to speak. 

Balin keeps a steady pace at Dwalin’s side as they walk. In truth, he’s hardly dared to leave it since they found one another after the battle, fighting against the mud and filth sucking at their boots to reach each other, tripping over the corpses of dwarves and orcs alike. Balin had been crying when they knocked brows, strange, silent tears that marked his cheeks but didn’t cause his chest to heave or his voice to catch.

There is, Dwalin thinks, something wrong with his brother. Even now Balin moves like a sleepwalker newly risen from the bed, aware yet unseeing, starting whenever Dwalin speaks his name. More than once Dwalin must nudge at Balin’s arm to warn him of a dip in the road, take him by the elbow and guiding him around a protruding bolder or gnarred root.

“Thank you, brother,” Balin murmurs, and Dwalin would rather have his help rejected, have Balin scoff and brush him aside, chide Dwalin for treating him like an old man.

Greif comes in different forms, Dwalin’s been told. His mother explained that to him after Erebor fell, when all Dwalin could feel was hate and rage and didn’t understand the dwarves weeping into their hands or staring up guilelessly at the smoke-filled sky. How could they be so ready to accept their fate? Why weren’t they _angry?_

But Dwalin’s unsure of what he feels now that his father is dead. The knowledge strikes him at unexpected intervals and sits within him as if it were a physical burden, heavy inside his chest and yanking down on his ankles and wrists. Sometimes, when Dwalin thinks about it for too long, his throat grows tight and it becomes difficult to breathe. During dinner the night before he brought a bowl of soup to his lips and thought suddenly of the dead weight of his father’s corpse as he and Balin heaved him onto the funeral pyre, how his head lolled about on his shoulders, as unbalanced as a puppet with its cut string. 

Thorin had sat next to him, then, reaching out to steady the bowl in Dwalin’s shaking hands and waiting for him to settle before letting go. Dwalin had to turn his head around to look at him, a stained wad of gaze pressed against the socket of his right eye, held in place by a bandage cutting across his face at angle, over the torn bridge of his nose and the gash in his scalp. More than once he’d been told that he was lucky, that he still may lose the eye to infection but could have had his skull cleaved open if he’d been any slower in his attack. 

“Where’s your supper, then?” Dwalin had asked, flinching at the reedy croak of his own voice.

Thorin hadn’t answered, hunched forward with his elbows on his knees, the tangled mass of his hair shielding his face from view. 

Dwalin lifts his head, his good eye squinting against the harsh glare of the sun. He catches sight of Thorin trekking on ahead, guiding a thin pony along by its bridle, the poor creature so overladen with weapons and supplies it can bare no passenger. 

Dwalin has not heard Thorin speak in days. Thorin signals and points, directs with his gaze or with the sharp jut of his chin. He listens and thinks but has yet to offer a verbal command, and seems almost surprised when his silent instructions are followed, when their people gather behind him each morning and follow when he sets off towards the horizon.

The words _heir_ and _King_ float about freely through the army, passed from the mouth of one dwarf to another. Thrain’s body had not been among the fallen, but neither has he been seen since the battle. There are rumours that he fled, that he lost his mind to grief upon witnessing the death of their King and he turned heel and _ran_ as their people were slaughtered.

Dwalin asked his brother what he believed only after the pyre was lit, the heat from the fire warm against his face, casting the ruins of war beyond in a harsh, orange glow.

“Thrain’s fate matters little, truth be told,” Balin said, his voice quiet, nearly drowned out beneath the sound of crackling wood. “Not when his honour is in question, when his heir is being celebrated as a hero.” 

There were crows somewhere nearby, roosting in the stone or distant trees. Dwalin could hear them chattering, bloated and content with the spoils of war.

“They’re calling Thorin ‘Oakenshield’,” he said. “They’re calling him King.”

“Mm.”

“He won’t accept the title. Not if he thinks Thrain is still alive.”

Balin shook his head. “He will not have a choice in the matter.”

 

\--

 

They stop to make camp long before nightfall, wary of the dark clouds gathering overhead. Ponies are tethered and the tents are raised, their meager rations divided and handed out. Short debates give rise over the benefits of organizing a hunting party, but the ominous roll of thunder in the distance is quick to put such arguments to rest.

The downpour starts all at once, cold and biting like pinpricks over Dwalin’s bare forearms, his face and the back of his neck. Dwarves hurry to finish constructing their flimsy shelters and scurry inside, but Thorin tarries, helping the wounded to safety before returning to complete his own partially raised tent, nearly toppled already by the force of the wind.

Balin blows out a low sigh as he finishes tying off a post. He pushes up to his feet and starts forward, no doubt intent on retrieving Thorin and dragging him to shelter, kicking and screaming if need be.

Dwalin catches his arm. “I’ll get him.”

Balin pauses. He wipes a hand over his face, scuffing his eyebrows and beard, water sluicing off his skin only to be replaced by a fresh layer of rain. 

Dwalin has never told Balin the true nature of his friendship with Thorin, suspecting his brother would be obligated to deter him from bedding the future King were he presented with any proof of it happening. But he imagines Balin knows all the same, can hardly fathom his clever brother being caught unawares by anything. 

“Best be quick about it,” Balin says, pausing before he adds, “Stay with him if you must.”

Thorin does not look up as Dwalin approaches, can perhaps not even hear the heavy trod of his boots though the roar of the storm. He lifts his eyes only when Dwalin calls his name, a loose tie and stake still clutched tight in his raw, shaking hands.

“Leave it!” Dwalin bellows, grabbing at Thorin when he doesn’t. Thorin tears himself away, stumbling when his boots stick in the mud. He catches himself on one knee, glaring up at Dwalin through wet strands of hair, eyes flashing as bright as blue-flame. For a moment Dwalin is more relieved than he is annoyed, because that, that at least is _something_.

But the spark is extinguished almost as quickly as it had risen, and Thorin turns away, fingers fumbling with the tie as the rope snaps in the wind like a whip. 

In the end Dwalin can only help him, help and try not to scream in sheer frustration when Thorin refuses to let up and claim another tent. Dwalin stomps the last peg into place with his heel, unsure of where the hammer’s gotten to and half blind from the downpour. Thorin’s silhouette is only slightly darker than the backdrop of the sky, and Dwalin must reach for him twice before he succeeds in catching the hood of his traveling cloak. Thorin snarls, maybe even says something, harsh words lost to the wind. Dwalin pulls him off balance, drags him closer until he can get a proper hold on his arm, digging his fingers into the meat of him before heaving Thorin into shelter.

It’s on slightly drier inside the tent than out, the ground damp and squishing under their feet with each clumsy step. Thorin rips himself away from Dwalin’s hold, dumping his pack wordlessly. He lies down without bothering to shake out his bedroll, settling onto his side and drawing up his knees, hunching in on himself, silent but for the mad chattering of his teeth.

“What are you doing? You’ll catch your death like that,” Dwalin grumbles, wondering when phrases like that began to migrate from Balin’s mouth to his own. He unlaces his cloak, making a disgusted noise as he flings it in a heap towards the corner of their rickety little tent. 

At his feet, Thorin doesn’t move.

Dwalin nudges at him with his toe, loosening the stings that pull his collar shut with one hand. “Oi. What are you doing?”

“Nothing,” Thorin rumbles. 

It frightens Dwalin, the hollow ring of his voice.

Dwalin makes quick work of dressing down to his breeches, stringing his clothes up to dry from one of the poles before quickly turning his attention to Thorin. He drops down onto his knees at his side, pulling off Thorin’s boots and socks, grabbing him by the shoulders and heaving him upwards, flinging aside his cloak and wrestling him out of his shirt. Thorin neither helps nor struggles, closing his eyes as he allows Dwalin to maneuver and undress him as if he were a rag doll.

Dwalin wants to shake him, wants to kiss his mouth and strike his face and crush him hard against his chest all at once. He wants to beg Thorin to speak to him, to ask about Dwalin’s injuries or the strangeness that has befallen his brother. He wants to tell Thorin to stop acting like a little brat –Dwalin’s father is dead as well and he isn’t wallowing as Thorin is. He’s fine, isn’t he? He’s _fine_ , and that means Thorin must be too because Dwalin can’t stand the thought that he isn’t.

A bitter feeling rises in Dwalin, hateful and dark and twisted through with a pang of sympathy. He thinks of Frerin, his yellow hair stained with blood and filth, his once gleaming breastplate cracked open and smeared with gore. He tries, for a moment, to envision himself in Thorin’s place, forced to march on without Balin at his side, and a sickness wells up inside him, so powerful it makes his stomach turn, makes him want to fall to his knees and beg Thorin forgiveness for harboring such vile thoughts. 

He gathers Thorin’s clothes and hangs them alongside his own before spreading their bedrolls out next to each other, all but lifting Thorin onto one. He places himself at Thorin’s back, dragging a thin blanket over them both before shuffling close, tentatively wrapping an arm around Thorin’s waist. Many times they’ve fallen asleep against each like this, passed out in a drunken stupor or wrapped around one another for warmth. Before the dragon came Thorin would occasionally creep into Dwalin’s room in the evening, stripping off his clothes before settling warmly beneath the furs layering Dwalin’s bed. Sometimes they would kiss or rut against each other or fuck, but other nights they only slept, side-by-side with their bodies pressed flushed against each other, fingers entwined or brows touching. 

But it feels different, now. Thorin doesn’t relax against Dwalin, doesn’t playfully elbow at his ribs or grind his arse against Dwalin’s front. Dwalin feels as though his arms are looped around a chunk of cold stone, and he begins to rub his palms up and down Thorin’s arms, wanting to bring some warmth back to them.

“Stop,” Thorin says, pushing Dwalin’s hands away, shoulders rolling forward as his spine curves. “Don’t touch me.”

Dwalin doesn’t argue. He tucks his hands beneath his arms for warmth and spends the night turning back and forth in discomfort, dampness bleeding through his bedroll and chilling him to his very bones. He doesn’t remember sleeping but knows that he must, for all at once he’s blinking and confused, aware that Thorin is shaking, muttering choked off words that Dwalin can’t seem to decipher. 

Thorin is tearing at himself, fingers curled into claws at the knuckle, blunt nails digging into his forearm. Blood rises up along the scrapes they leave behind, and Dwalin grabs at his wrist, breaking his grip and twisting their fingers together. He pins Thorin’s arms against his own chest, encompassing him in a great bear hug, tight enough to make his ribs creak. 

Thorin doesn’t fight him, but he makes a terrible sound, a low keening noise that catches in his throat like he’s dying, so Dwalin keeps his arms around him, burrowing his face against his unwashed hair, eyes squeezing shut as he urges Thorin to be silent, please, _please_ , just…

“I can’t do this,” Thorin moans. “I can’t, Dwalin.” 

“Thorin…”

“They’re all looking to me and I—I don’t know—”

“I’ll help you,” Dwalin vows. He ducks his chin, presses his brow to the hot skin of Thorin’s neck. “And so will Balin and Dis. We will.”

“It was all for nothing,” Thorin says, as if he hasn’t heard. His fingers spasm in Dwalin’s grip, clenching down. 

Dwalin’s throat feels tight. He wants to deny it, but what do they have to show for their conquest? Grief and burned dwarves, Moria still unclaimed and left in ruins.

“It’s not your fault,” he says.

“No,” Thorin snarls. “Grandfather— he dragged us here and now he’s… they’re all…”

Thorin pulls in a tight breath. It catches in his chest and comes back out as a sob, muffled by the press of the bedroll against his cheek, the stubborn clench of his jaw. Dwalin tightens his arms and pulls Thorin closer, his bare back cool and clammy against his chest. He whispers nonsense into Thorin’s ear, pitiful words that offer no true comfort and only serve to fill the silence between them.

Years from now, Dwalin will think of this. He will remember the red lines marking Thorin’s arm and the hushed strain of his voice, the grief burrowing inside his chest like a living thing and the damp chill encompassing them both and think, _oh._

He knows it only upon looking back: this is the moment. This is when the weight of Erebor settles on Thorin’s shoulders, when it begins to smother his already rare smiles and darken his eyes, leaves within him the diamond-hard resolve that he must do more, do better, that he has never accomplished enough.

It takes Dwalin much longer to realize that he can’t keep his promise, can’t share in a burden that Thorin guards too fiercely to ever let go.


End file.
